


All Depending

by zipandzap95



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bed-sharing, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Small Overdose Scene, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 04:39:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17615657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zipandzap95/pseuds/zipandzap95
Summary: "Oh, oh my God," John said. His voice was hoarse. "Thank you. Right. I'll pass on the message. Thank you."Sherlock had heard the tone of John's voice, and he looked up from his microscope as John hung up the phone. John's hand was shaking, and his forehead slightly sweaty. Face deathly pale. Something was definitely wrong."What is it?" Sherlock asked, and even he was unable to keep the concern out of his voice. "What's wrong?"John couldn't answer. He looked at Sherlock. Furled his lips. How was he supposed to tell him what the call was about?"John, please tell me," Sherlock said, halfway out of his seat. "You're worrying me."John swallowed hard. Best to just get it out, then."It's Mycroft, Sherlock," John whispered. "He's dead."--When Mycroft suddenly passes away, Sherlock experiences heavy grief.  John is there for him through thick and thin. After all, there's no one way to deal with grief. It all depends on the person. It all depends.





	All Depending

**Author's Note:**

> John and Sherlock receive news that Mycroft has been killed. Sadness, Hurt/Comfort ensues.

Chapter 1

 

It had all started on a bleak day, as it should have. It was raining for days, the quiet pattering on the roof loud and yet just soft enough to notice.

That was the only sound in the flat that day. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was being particularly quiet because she liked to read her novels on rainy days. Thus, there was no reason for her vaccuum to run, nor for her Spanish music to blast on her radio as she scrubbed the grime from her sink.

Then that's when the phone rang. It wasn't the house phone. It was Sherlock's cell phone, buried deep into his pocket, the ringer loud enough for John to hear across the room, where he was trying to type up their latest case on his blog. The sound was just shrill enough for John to lose his concentration, and he had stood up and crossed the room to tell Sherlock to get off the microscope answer it already.

"I'm busy," Sherlock said, even though John hadn't said anything yet. "Can you get it for me?"

John huffed, rolling his eyes, but he obliged the man anyway. He reached into the pocket of Sherlock's dressing gown, and pulled out his ringing cell phone.

Then John pressed answer.

"Hello?" John asked.

"Hello. Is this Sherlock Holmes?" the person on the other end asked. A monotone voice. Matter-of-fact. Business-like.

"No, this is Doctor John Watson," he said. "Can I take a message?"

The next few seconds were filled with absolute dread, like something had reached in and clenched the guts of John's stomach so hard that he nearly doubled over. The blood rushed in his ears, flowing from his face and leaving it white as a sheet.

John's mouth fell open. His throat felt dangerously dry, but he still somehow found the strength to reply.

"Oh, oh my God," John said. His voice was hoarse. "Thank you. Right. I'll pass on the message. Thank you."

Sherlock had heard the tone of John's voice, and he looked up from his microscope as John hung up the phone. John's hand was shaking, and his forehead slightly sweaty. Face deathly pale. Something was definitely wrong.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, and even he was unable to keep the concern out of his voice. "What's wrong?"

John couldn't answer. He looked at Sherlock. Furled his lips. How was he supposed to tell him what the call was about?

"John, please tell me," Sherlock said, halfway out of his seat. "You're worrying me."

John swallowed hard. Best to just get it out, then.

"It's Mycroft, Sherlock," John whispered. "He's dead."

* * *

 

John never knew where the call had come from, and he didn't want to know. It could have come from Mycroft's office, a business associate, or even from the Prime Minister. He didn't care. But from what the other person on the other side had gathered, Mycroft had been on his way to meet with the leader of a distant land, and it was a trap. A bomb had been launched as soon as Mycroft's plane was approaching. It was too late to stop it. There was nothing that they could do.

The funeral was small and quaint, just like Mycroft would have wanted it, probably. He loved to act like he was drawn to things with style, but it was also no secret that he would not want any attention or for people to mourn for him when he was gone. That was just Mycroft's way.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes sat in the front row, their mouths drawn tight, with Mrs. Holmes sobbing loudly into her handkerchief. Mr. Holmes held his wife tightly, with only a hint of a tear gathering in the corner of his sorrowful eyes. Sherlock sat with them, and he looked like a statue, his face completely impassive. But John knew better.

When John had told Sherlock the news in the flat, standing above the kitchen table, Sherlock did not speak for a total of three and a half minutes. Sherlock had been calculating, thinking, trying to will his internal walls to remain upright, trying to find the most logical response to such news.

But in the end, it hadn't worked.

Sherlock's screams had echoed off of the walls, thundering in John's ears, as John had wrapped his arms around Sherlock to keep him from falling out of his chair. It sounded like Sherlock had been shot, like his heart had been ripped out of his chest and smushed until all that had been left of it was a red smear on the wooden floor.

Mrs. Hudson had run up the stairs, bursting the door open, and looked at the scene before her with utter confusion. Sherlock was clutching onto John like he was a heartline, long fingers digging into John's back as he struggled to remain upright. Sherlock couldn't speak, sinking deeper and deeper to the floor with John just trying to hold him and to soothe him. Eventually, Mrs. Hudson left them alone, demanding an explanation to be told to her when they were both decent.

Now Mrs. Hudson sat on Sherlock's right side in the church pew, her small hand gently holding Sherlock's, and her other hand dabbing at her eyes. Sherlock made no move to hold her hand, to reciprocate. It was like he was the one that was dead.

Nobody gave a eulogy. Nobody seemed to have anything to say. The priest simply spoke his way through the service, using that grating yet also calming voice when speaking to the small crowd that had gathered.

After the service, John led Sherlock out of the church, his hand clutching the other man's arm, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't want to stick around for refreshments. They breezed past Lestrade and Molly and Mrs. Hudson, and John gave a comforting hug to both of Sherlock's parents. Sherlock simply stood by like a spectre, emptily accepting hugs and sympathies from friends and family.

That night, Sherlock still had not talked. He had not eaten. He had not slept in days. John had sat next to him on the couch, and he had looked at him intently, trying to look at Sherlock in the eye.

"You need to eat, Sherlock," John said. "You need to sleep. Please."

Sherlock's eyes ticked up to meet John's. They held his gaze for what felt ages. But this time, Sherlock's gaze held no heat, none of the intensity that was usually there when John and Sherlock's eyes met. Now there was just emptiness.

John took the spoon from the soup that he had placed in front of Sherlock, and held it out to him.

"Eat," John said, and he wasn't asking. "Now."

Sherlock looked down at the spoon, then back at John's eyes. Slowly, his mouth opened, asking to be fed.

John fed him the whole bowl, and none of them said a word the entire time. It was almost intimate, to have John feed Sherlock constantly, never breaking eye contact, holding the spoon to Sherlock's lips until Sherlock had licked all of the soup from the metal.

Once Sherlock had eaten it all, John put down the bowl, and he carefully placed a hand on Sherlock's back, looking to meet him in the eyes.

"Hey," John said softly, gazing at him. "You know I'm always here for you, right?"

Sherlock looked down at his feet. Nodded slowly.

"Good," John said. "Because I can't imagine what you're going through now. I really can't. I mean, if I had lost Harry...I don't know what I would have done."

Sherlock didn't respond. He didn't even nod his head this time. He just stared down at the ground, his face set like a stone, eyes still completely empty.

"Anyway," John said after a moment. "You can. Um. Talk. If you'd like. I-I wouldn't be against the idea. Like I said, I'm here for you. So. If you have anything you want to say..."

John knew that Sherlock wasn't going to talk, but he had to make it clear that he could. John looked at Sherlock, who was still looking down at the floor.

After a moment, John patted Sherlock on the knee softly, rubbing his tumb across the other man's kneecap.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," John finally said, and he stood up from the couch, and went to bed.

* * *

 

It rained for a solid two weeks, and John was sure that this was the longest stint of rainfall ever to happen in London.

Cases did not come. Lestrade did not call, did not text. Mrs. Hudson came up every ten minutes to check on them, bringing tea on a tray, and she always stayed to talk about the latest gossip from her book club. It had occurred to John long ago that she was giving Sherlock the gift of stable constancy. To let him know something will always remain the same.

Sherlock didn't speak much, and when he did, it was to yell at the telly or when he was talking to himself when working with his experiments. But almost always, John would find him sitting still in his armchair, staring straight ahead as if trying to study something plastered on the wall.

John had dealt with many cases of grief over the years. Many who had just lost a loved one would choose to push their emotion down and remain strong, or some would automatically seek and accept comfort from their friends and family. But to tell the truth, there was no one way to deal with grief. There was no specific way one would show their sadness or sorrow. It was all different, like a variety of emotions, each of them none the same from the other.

But John had never seen a case like this, where Sherlock wouldn't talk, wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep. This behavior would be regular for Sherlock, if he was working on a case. But he wasn't. He wasn't doing anything. There was something going on in his mind, something profound, and John had no fucking clue what it was.

That night, John sat with Sherlock on the couch and watched a James Bond movie, with John snacking on popcorn while Sherlock sat straight up the entire time, face completely straight. John said nothing about it.

Then that was when it happened. A nerve-wracking sob shook Sherlock's body, bending him over at the stomach, and Sherlock cried out in agony, nearly falling from the couch. John immediately reached out and caught him in his arms, pulling Sherlock close to his body. With his free hand, John muted the movie, and he tugged Sherlock close to his chest.

Sherlock cried and sobbed and sniveled, and it was unlike anything John had ever seen Sherlock do. It had been so sudden, like a dam breaking, the floodwaters bursting out from the walls and taking everything in its path.

John rubbed Sherlock's back soothingly, thinking that he had no clue what he was doing. Was he really helping Sherlock? Was anything that he was doing helpful at all? Or worse, was John only making it worse?

Sherlock clawed at John's shirt, trying to seek grounding, and John gave it to him, resting his chin in Sherlock's curls. Doubting himself be damned, John was going to do the best he could.

It felt like hours, but Sherlock finally quieted down. John got up, and got Sherlock a roll of tissues. Without saying a word, Sherlock blew his nose, and he wiped away his tears.

"Are you all right?" John asked, but he knew the answer. Sherlock was not all right. His brother was dead.

But nonetheless, Sherlock nodded. It was slow, soft. It was obvious that Sherlock didn't believe it.

John leaned his head down, touching his forehead to Sherlock's. "I'm not going to leave you," John said softly. "I'm here, Sherlock. Please, talk to me. Okay? Just talk to me. I'm not going to leave you. I'm going to stay right here. I'll sleep here next to you if I need to. Okay? You understand me? I need you to say you understand."

Sherlock didn't make a sound. His head was leaning against John's shoulder, his eyes staring out to the other wall. Then, "I understand, John."

John nodded. He rubbed his hand up and down Sherlock's arm. "Okay," he said. "Okay."

* * *

 

Weeks later, on another rainy night, John was sleeping in his bed when he was woken up with the soft creak of his door.

Light streamed in, spreading across the floor, and into John's eyes. John blinked blearily, and he looked up to see who was at his bedroom door.

Sherlock's unmistakable figure was standing at the doorway, slouched, exhausted. John knew Sherlock hadn't slept in weeks, and when he did, Sherlock would have nightmares and scream out so loudly that he'd wake up Mrs. Hudson and John.

"I couldn't sleep," Sherlock droned, a statement said as if Sherlock knew John had already guessed. "Can I come in?"

John was already wide awake. "Please," John said. "God Sherlock. You look terrible."

If it had been any other time, Sherlock would have likely responded with a smart-ass comment like, Well I see your charm still has not left you. Or Do shut up.

Not this time.

Sherlock climbed into John's bed, pulling the covers over his body, and it was like they had done this many times before. And while John would have loved to think that after all of this time pining after his flatmate, he had finally gotten Sherlock into his bed, John knew that this was simply not the time.

Sherlock laid still, straight, very obviously making sure not to make physical contact with John. Sherlock seemed to know that he was crossing some sort of line between them, something that neither of them had ever the courage to do. So it was not a surprise that Sherlock was being so very careful not to compromise their dynamic that they had worked so hard to make.

John and Sherlock didn't speak or talk. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done. John was almost convinced that Sherlock had just come up here so he wouldn't be alone tonight. Completely understandable.

Minutes passed. John was starting to drift off again. But then Sherlock spoke.

"I have dreams about him," Sherlock said, and John knew he meant Mycroft. It didn't have to be said. "Times back to when we were children. I would be running across the river, looking at the fish, and Mycroft would be telling me not to fall in. Then I would fall in anyway, and Mycroft would have to jump in after me and save me."

"He sounds like a caring brother," John said softly.

Silence followed. Sherlock didn't respond. He was thinking.

"Then sometimes I see Mycroft, and he's playing with me and teaching me his mathematics that he'd be learning in school," Sherlock said. "It was a game that we'd play. I would see if I could learn a lesson before he did. Sometimes I would be able to. Most times I wasn't. Mycroft would always be there to teach me."

John didn't say anything this time. He waited for Sherlock to say his piece.

"Then when I overdosed for the first time," Sherlock said, and his voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "When I overdosed, Mycroft was there first. In the drug den. He dragged me out, took me to the hospital. Paid for everything. Didn't ask for anything in return. And do you know what I said to him then, John?"

John turned his head just slightly, looking at Sherlock's face in the dark. It was contorted. Tear-stained.

"I told him to piss off," Sherlock choked out, and he inhaled sharply. "That I didn't need him. But he was just...he was just trying to help me. He always...always did. And I...and I...I told him to go away. I pushed him away, John. I always pushed my big brother away, and now it's too late for me to tell him that I'm sorry."

Tears were streaming down Sherlock's face, and he was sniveling again. John considered reaching out again. But he let Sherlock cry. Let him get it out.

"I-I-I-I..." Sherlock stammered, crying, choking on tears. "I'm so so sorry..."

Sherlock's body was shaking now, his deep voice broken, his hair frizzled. John didn't know what to do. What could he do? How could he possibly help?

"Oh, Sherlock," John said softly. "Oh, I'm so sorry."

Sherlock didn't respond. He cried softly, broken sobs in his throat, his body wracking itself. It was like he was having a small seizure.

John turned his body. Wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso. Lifted Sherlock up so that he was in a seated position on the bed. Tears had stained the pillow that Sherlock had been lying on, and John reached across the bed to get the tissues. He gave them to Sherlock, placing them in his hand. Sherlock blew his nose.

"Please tell me how I can help you," John said, because he had no idea. Sherlock Holmes is not like most people. Or is he, really? Sherlock is human, that much is clear. Was his case similar to what John was used to? Or was Sherlock a completely different specimen altogther? It was difficult to tell.

Sherlock looked up into John's eyes, bloodshot red, his beautful colorful orbs clouded by sadness and tears and mourning.

"Just..." Sherlock said, murmuring, making it difficult for John to hear. "Just stay. With me. Please."

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's body. "Always, Sherlock." John said, whispering. "Always. I'm not going anywhere.

* * *

 

They woke up the next morning in John's bed, with Sherlock entangled with John's body, and his head leaning against John's shoulder. None of them said a word about it. None of them mentioned that for the first time since Mycroft's death, Sherlock had been able to get more than an hour's rest.

Grief did not go away overnight. John knew that. It took time, a lot of time, sometimes years. Sometimes therapy. And everybody handled it differently. John should know. He went through it when he had thought Sherlock had died. After he had jumped off of Bart's. There wasn't one way to go through with it. There was no one path of healing.

But sleeping next to another human body had been comforting to Sherlock. That much was clear. And it helped him, immensely. It was stable, and it was safe. Sherlock needed that.

So from then on, they never slept in separate beds again.

At the end of each day, it was already a given that they would be sharing a bed. Neither of them brought it up. Neither of them made a fuss. Neither of them questioned it.

Nothing was said about it when a week passed and Sherlock's things were moved into John's room, his sock index mixing in with John's and his dressing gowns hung on a hanger above the door. It was not mentioned when John went out and bought a larger comforter so they wouldn't have to hog the sheets all night. It was something that just went without saying. Don't bring it up.

Every morning, John woke up with Sherlock in his arms, his hand placed at the small of the other man's back, and the other hand buried in Sherlock's curls. Sherlock would wake up seconds after John, and every morning they would lie and look at each other, staring at each other, before one of them would move and that would be the end of it.

Sherlock still did not take cases. But he was talking again. Lestrade came over in the afternoons to check up on him, bringing folders of cold cases that had been sitting on his desk for ages. Sherlock always accepted them, and then left them in the corner to collect dust for the next few days. Every time Lestrade would come around, John would pull him aside, and thank him for coming to check up on Sherlock.

Lestrade would always wave his hand, and say, "I just want him to feel better."

"Me too," John would reply.

"We care about the bastard more than we should."

"Yeah. I know."

"He'll be all right, won't he?"

"He will. He just needs time, I think."

"God. I can't imagine. Losing a brother like that."

"I know. Yeah."

"I hope you'll take care of him, John. There's not a doubt in my mind that you will."

"You know me. I'll always be here."

Then Lestrade would pat John on the shoulder, give him a wave, and he'd be on his way.

Weeks passed. Sherlock was getting better. Slowly. Surely. Definitively.

Then two months had passed since Mycroft had died. Sherlock finally picked up a cold case folder, flipped it open, and stared reading. Then in the next second, Sherlock closed it. Tossed it aside. Well. Progress was progress.

The next day, Sherlock opened the folder again. Read through it again. Made it to fifteen minutes before flipping it shut. He took notes on what he noticed.

Then the day after that, Sherlock would make himself a piece of toast, a cup of tea, and sat down once more. He solved the case in two minutes after that. Then he opened up another folder.

Since Mycroft had died, Sherlock had picked up his violin a total of five times. He would often scratch out harsh notes from the strings, sometimes sharp enough to leave John's ears ringing. Nobody stopped him, though. How could they?

Then there were times, in the dead of night, when Sherlock would be at the window and looking out over the city of London, and he would play a melancholy tune that would nearly bring John close to tears. It was one of the rare times that John was able to get a glimpse at what Sherlock would be feeling.

"I owe you a sincere apology, John," Sherlock said one night when he was pressed against John in the dark, snuggled up against him, and ready to fall asleep. "One that's long overdue."

"Mm, really?" John asked. "What is it?"

"I'm so sorry," Sherlock said. "About faking my death. Making you believe that I was gone. I...I know what it's like. Now. To mourn."

Yeah, well, I'm in love with you, so that makes our circumstances a bit different. John thought, but didn't dare say that out loud. That would qualify as insensitive. A Bit Not Good. Not to mention much too revealing.

"I can't imagine what you must have felt," Sherlock said, and he sounded sincere. "To believe that I was dead. That I wasn't coming back. That I was really gone, and everything that might have been said wasn't said, and now it was too late."

John knew Sherlock was speaking out of personal experience, but John could still feel a stab of pain in his chest as Sherlock spoke. Because it was all true. John very nearly died during those two years. If it hadn't been for Mary...

No. Best not think about her now. Her, or her child that had turned out to be an elaborate lie to keep John engaged to her until marriage, and she would be able to steal everything they owned. Luckily, John had found out before it was too late. Imagine what would have happened if they had actually been married. God, the horror.

But now it was over. Now John was here with Sherlock in his arms. And while they were not together formally, while they hadn't kissed or shagged, the feeling was there. John knew it, and he knew Sherlock knew it, too.

Sleeping in the same bed was not the orthodox way of friendship, and John understood that. He knew that his and Sherlock's relationship was special, one that no one else had with anyone. It was difficult to qualify them as anything. Even from the moment they met, they meant more to each other than what was normal for friends. For anyone.

Sherlock cleared his throat now, as if preparing to speak some more.

"I missed you," Sherlock whispered into the dark, and John's heart skipped a beat. "Through those two years. I missed you. I really did. It was like I wasn't home. And the feeling was...unpleasant to say the least."

John gulped. Wrapped his arm tighter around Sherlock.

"I missed you, too, Sherlock," John replied, murmuring. "More than you'll ever know."

"I know," Sherlock said, then turned over, and fell asleep. And that was the end of it.

* * *

 The next morning, around two and a half months after Mycroft's death, John and Sherlock were both up early. They walked around London together, watching the sunrise over the buildings and into the sky. The bright orange and pinks mixing into the blue was enthralling. Beautful.

They walked to the cemetary, just because they could. John stopped at a vendor and bought flowers to lay on the gravestone, carrying them the entire way.

Neither John or Sherlock talked about their converstation, their revealing _I missed you_ s that were uttered in the night air. It might have been a love confession. It might not have been. John had a feeling they'd never really know what it was.

When they got to Mycroft's gravestone, Sherlock laid a hand on Mycroft's etched name, tracing his fingers across the M. Then the Y, all the way to the S in Holmes.

John watched as Sherlock knelt down in the grass, placing the flowers on the ground, and ran his fingers again over Mycroft's birthdate, and then the date of his death.

The dash between the birth and death date struck John like a knife more than anything. It was Mycroft's entire life, shortened down to just one line. It was almost poetic how meaningful Mycroft had somehow made that one little dash. That one little dash that represented Mycroft's years of life.

John was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost didn't hear Sherlock speak.

"Why," Sherlock said. He wasn't talking to John. He was talking to Mycroft. "Why the _hell_ did you get on that plane?"

John's heart ached. Sherlock's body shook slightly, and it almost looked like Sherlock was merely cold.

"You didn't have to die, you know," Sherlock said. His voice was not weak. It was strong. Sherlock was angry. "You didn't have to leave me. You didn't have to...you were the strong one, Mycroft! Always the strong one. Why didn't you think to check for any bombs or missiles? Why didn't your plane detect it in time? You're posh, you're a Holmes! How could you have been so stupid?!"

"Sherlock..." John said softly. "Sherlock, please." But Sherlock ignored him.

"You had enough money to have the best sensors in the whole of the United Kingdom," Sherlock hissed. "You knew...you could have saved yourself, if you hadn't been so...so stupid. So stupid, I can't believe you were so stupid."

John laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, but Sherlock didn't relax. He stared at Mycroft's name with burning anger.

"You didn't have to be on that plane," Sherlock hissed, eyes wet. "You could have been..been..alive. You would be here. Being my...insufferable big brother who teases me, and deduces with me. My big brother who knows everything, who's smarter than me. Well you're gone now. Who do you think could possibly replace your pompous posh arseface who has me followed? Nobody. That's who. And now look where you are. Six feet into the bloody ground. You arent' alive. And I wish...I wish that you were."

John furled his fists. Sherlock's knees collapsed to the ground. There was not a tear on his face.

"I wish you were alive," Sherlock whispered finally. Then he stood up. Looked down at the gravestone. He didn't move again.

John looked up at him, studying his face. Sherlock just stared emptily at the stone. At his brother's name and deathdate and the dash.

Sherlock inhaled then. Softly. "I'm ready to leave now," he eventually said. He looked down at John. Met his eyes. "Let's go. I think I need...a coffee."

"Are you all right?" John asked.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said. He sighed. "I need a coffee. Maybe a biscuit."

John nodded. "Right. Me too," John said. "It's getting pretty cold out, actually."

Sherlock nodded back. John glanced down at his feet. "We can come here again whenever you want to," John said. "Anytime."

Sherlock nodded again. "I know," he said. And then they walked to Speedy's for coffee and a biscuit.

* * *

 

John could remember Mycroft. He could remember their first meeting, with Mycroft leaning on his umbrella and assesssing John like he was a fascinating science experiment. Like John was the bacteria and Mycroft was the scientist.

John could remember Mycroft scolding his brother in Buckingham Palace for wearing nothing but a sheet. And while John was mostly checking out Sherlock's bare arse nearly the whole time, he can still remember the firmness of the Mycroft's voice. The brotherly, and also motherly and fatherly tone that Mycroft had used.

Mycroft was Sherlock's caretaker. He had been, ever since they were children. That much was true and obvious.

John didn't know the reasoning behind why Mycroft always was the one to take care of his younger brother. Maybe their parents weren't around much. It would make sense. Sherlock mentioned once that his mother was a mathematician, and his father must have been something important as well.

Mycroft had to play Mother, Father, and Brother all at the same time. And Sherlock had grown used to it. It was always Mycroft who would dry Sherlock's tears after the bullies at school had been particularly mean to him, and it was always Mycroft that would remind Sherlock that caring is not an advantage when Sherlock was betrayed by a friend.

It was always Mycroft. Always him. The one who cared so deeply from the beginning, and the one who had stuck with Sherlock since before Sherlock even knew how to walk.

So yes. Of course. It made sense why Sherlock would miss his brother. It made sense, also, why Sherlock was extremely dumbfounded by his brother's death. His strong brother, taken down by something that no one had any control of. His brother, who could cover up a mishap in a second, who could track anything using only a computer, who seemed to take control of any room simply by waving his umbrella around.

How could _he_ be dead?

* * *

 It was the first sunny day in a long while. It was bright, and for once, there was something to be happy about.

John had been let off early from the surgery where he worked, and he was on his way home. He had gotten the shopping done, and he was going to cook Sherlock a nice meal. Maybe Sherlock would eat it. Maybe not. Who really knows with him, anyhow.

John opened the door, and he put the groceries on the table. He took everything out. Put them on the counter.

"Sherlock," John called, and only silence responded to him. "Come on out. I'm making your favorite. You can start a movie if you'd like."

Silence. John rolled his eyes.

"Well if you're not hungry, you can just say so," John said. Still nothing. "Or if you want me to make something else, that's fine, too. Just let me know."

Nothing.

John looked around. Now he was confused. "Sherlock? Are you here?"

John walked around the apartment. Checked his room. Checked the bathroom. No sign of Sherlock.

Then John eyed Sherlock's room. The door was closed. As it always was.

"Sherlock?" John called. He walked to Sherlock's door. He opened it.

It was a mess in there, with papers strewn all over the floor and old cases nailed to the wall. John walked forward, but something cracked beneath his foot. A glass syringe.

An empty syringe.

Recently used.

_Oh Christ._

John looked up, and for the first time, he saw legs sticking out from behind the bed, still and unmoving.

Sherlock.

_Oh, God._

"Sherlock," John breathed, and he rushed over, bent down, and John was checking his pulse, checking his pupils to see if they'd dilate. "Oh God Sherlock, what... please tell me you can hear me."

Sherlock stirred. Groaned. He needed to get to a hospital.

John pulled out his cell phone. Dialled 999.

"Please, I need an ambulance at 221B Baker Street," said John, his heart pounding. "My flatmate's overdosed. I-I don't know how long he's been out. My name is Doctor John Watson."

It took eight minutes for the ambulance to arrive. John sat in the back with Sherlock as he was wheeled into the bus. John clenched at his hand. Turned over his arm.

Oh God.

All up and down his wrist, there were dots where the syringe had entered. Over and over again. Some old, some new.

For all John knew, Sherlock had been doing this for months.

"Sherlock, please hang in there, please," John said, and he begged, pleaded.

The entire thing was like a dream. They wheeled Sherlock into a room to have his stomach pumped. To get it out of his system. To get him rest. It was all a blur, and John had no idea what to do or what to think.

Somewhere in the back of John's mind, he had hoped that Sherlock was getting better.

Time passed. Hours. Maybe days. All that John knew was that he was not leaving.

John didn't know what happened. But then the doctors came out, and they said that John could see him.

Sherlock was awake when John went into the room. His eyes averted away from John's. Shameful. Tired. Sorrowful.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock whispered. "I-I...I don't know why I...I...I can't handle this..."

"Hey, Sherlock, look at me," John said, and walked up to Sherlock in the bed. Then he found that he had nothing to say. What could he say, really? How could he react?

Sherlock was mourning, yes. He must have felt it become too much. What he did was wrong. After all, how much justification can grief really give a person? Should John be mad? Probably. Should John be forgiving? Understanding? Maybe. It goes two different ways. It's difficult to tell.

John wants to tell Sherlock not to apologize. But he can't. John wants to tell Sherlock that it's all fine, and that it was his fault for leaving Sherlock alone. But he can't.

Sherlock is not a child. He's mourning the death of his brother. Just because Sherlock is mourning doesn't mean that he isn't capable of himself. Doesn't mean that Sherlock couldn't be left alone. Right? Oh Christ. This was all so complicated.

Sherlock was looking up at John, waiting for John to continue his sentence. John didn't know what to say. So he settled for, "I'll always be here for you."

And that seemed to be enough for now.

* * *

 

Once Sherlock was released from hospital, John took him back to the flat, and never left his side. John fed him from the spoon, then took naps with him in bed. John did everything that he possibly, humanly, could.

Sherlock flushed the rest of the drugs down the toilet. John didn't even have to tell him. Sherlock said that it had all been a slip-up. His brain had gotten the better of him. The thoughts had begun to come back. Sherlock had just wanted it to be quiet.

John took care of Sherlock over the next few weeks. They talked. They took it all slow. It was almost like it was normal again.

And every night, they would find comfort in each other's arms, an unspoken connection that was lifesaving. For both of them.

"This isn't what most friends do, Sherlock," John said just as they had settled into bed one night. Sherlock stirred in John's arms. Turned to look at him.

"What do most friends do, John?" Sherlock asked, and he looked up into John's eyes.

"I don't know," John responded. "They, well, sleep in separate beds, for one thing. And most friends don't know so much about each other."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we know...stuff..about each other. Intimate stuff."

"Such as?"

"Like...like I know that you like to have your head rubbed every night before going to sleep. And you know that I always sleep on my side but I'll always wake up on my back."

"Well, John, we've been sleeping in the same bed for about four months now," Sherlock said. "That's all pretty understandable to me."

"Yeah, but Sherlock-"

"Does the closeness bother you?"

"No-"

"Because I could have sworn that you might like it."

"Sherlock-"

"Am I wrong?"

John looked at Sherlock, and for the first time, there was something there in Sherlock's eyes, something that John hadn't really seen before.

Intensity. Hope.

Desire.

John gulped.

"No," John said. "No, you're not wrong."

Then Sherlock closed the distance between them, and he kissed him, like it was nothing, and it felt so easy. Easier than it should have been.

John kissed back, almost lazily, but his heart was beating wildly, his pulse thrumming, and it was unlike anything he'd ever felt before.

Sherlock curled an arm around John's waist, pulling him closer. John plunged his hands into Sherlock's curls, nipping at his bottom lip, moaning when Sherlock licked at the underside of John's tongue.

They kissed for ages, well into the night. When they finally pulled away, they smiled. Turned over. Went to bed.

And that was the end of that.

* * *

 

There are five stages of grief.

Denial. Anger. Depression. Bargaining. Acceptance.

The teacher in John's Psych 101 had said that they could happen in any order. It all depended on the person. What their path of healing was. Sometimes Acceptance came first, and then Denial after that. Sometimes the griever went back a stage. It all depended.

John hadn't paid attention in class long enough to know how to identify the signs and stages of grief. He didn't know if Sherlock had gone through all of the stages in the past five months since Mycroft's death.

One thing was for sure. It took time. Grieving the loss of a loved one can be a painful process. Correction. It is a painful process. But John would like to think that because he was there, it was a little less painful for Sherlock.

Sherlock had started going on cases again. Just the other night, they had gone on a chase across the Thames, tracking down a petty theif with a gun. John engaged in a shooting match with him and won. John had missed the feeling of adrenaline in his veins. And when they got home, Sherlock had pinned John against the wall and snogged him breathless until John felt positively weak in the knees and Sherlock had to hold him up.

Sherlock was also starting to laugh again. It was the most beautiful sound in the world, and it was the best sight to see Sherlock smile. It was refreshing. It was nice.

And no matter what it was they were doing, both John and Sherlock made it a point to go to Mycroft's grave every Wednesday to change out the flowers. Sherlock always said a few words. Sometimes they were angry. Sometimes they were joking. Sometimes Sherlock just stuck with the words, "I miss you, you prat." It all depended.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes have stopped by frequently as well. They seem to be doing fine, too. They have had their own friends in Sussex to care for them, and to talk to. It was obvious that they were still healing, though. And that's okay. They all were, after all.

Before Mr. and Mrs. Holmes would leave, they would always give Sherlock a long hug, telling him how much they love him. Sherlock hugged back, now. He'd always respond with, "Yes. I know." But that seemed to be enough.

Life went on, as it always seemed to do, regardless of what happened.

No matter what happened. Life moved on.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
